Congratulations on Soiling the Bed!

You won’t know what day it is or what time it is, only that that interminable bastard the sun has decided to rear his hideous riticus in your direction and force you into the waking world.

Rise and shine, motherfucker! he’ll cry.

“Fuck off,” you’ll say, waving your hand. He’ll ignore you but at least he’ll stop talking. That’s when you’ll realize that you’re not in your room. You’ll feel around cautiously, doing your best to make it seem like you’re groping for whatever strange flesh you might’ve found last night, but you won’t find anything. If you ended up with anyone they’re long gone now.

You won’t want to move any part of your body you don’t have to. Every muscle will cry out in agony, every inch of your skull will be filled with a horrible tension, as if some sort of burly craftsman had fastened a thick band of constantly constricting iron on the inside of your skull. You’ll pray for water to materialize near the bed, but nothing will come.

You’ll lay that was for a full five minutes, flexing your muscles to test for permanent injury before you reach down to your crotch and decide to see if you found some strange last night. The moment your hand gets down there, though, you’re going to pull it back.

You’ll be met not with the sticky slickness of sex but the horrible, amorphous sensation of a mix of shit and piss which has pooled around you in the sheets. Your eyes will fly open for the first time and you’ll carefully, very carefully, shift your weight out of the bed, taking care to stop dripping before you step completely away from the sheets.

You’ll do your best to wipe yourself clean with the comforter, taking in your surroundings as you do so. You’ll be thankful that you don’t recognize any of the decorations or photographs. At least you didn’t void your bowels in the bed of a close friend or co-worker, or a boy you’d hoped to take home and ruin.

You’ll dress yourself in the same careful fashion, guessing at whose parents you’re looking at, struggling to find even one memory of the previous night. Nothing will come to you, of course, and even as you scrawl your hasty goodbye/apology note you’ll pen it “to whom it may concern.” You’ll hope that that doesn’t sting worse than the soiled sheets as you slip ten dollars for the cost of a laundromat under the pen. The whos and wheres of your awakenings are something you’ve long since stopped trying to keep track of.

Congratulations on Soiling the Bed!